


City of Orgies

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Closet Sex, Drunken Kiss, Drunkenness, First Time, Humor, Lit References, M/M, New York City, New York Fashion Week, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2011-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sadly contains no actual orgies.  And yes, this bunny was conceived during a Real Housewives of NYC marathon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	City of Orgies

_**City of Orgies**_  
 **Title:** City of Orgies  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)**htebazytook**  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** Zach/Chris, (Zach/Andy Cohen)  
 **Author's Notes:** Sadly contains no actual orgies. And yes, this bunny was conceived during a Real Housewives of NYC marathon.

  
It's dark. It's like nobody in New York has heard of lighting, or at least nobody on the charity event planning circuit has. Is the dim atmosphere meant to inspire a sense of doom and thus empty privileged people's pockets more quickly? Is it some cruel joke the universe is playing on him because he's wearing his old glasses (for fashion's sake) and can't see two feet in front of him? Has the apocalypse come early? Is he drunk already?

"My _God_ it's dark in here."

"Yeah," Zach says. No shit.

"The Southampton Hospital thing was darker, if you can believe it. And you should've seen this place _last_ year."

Zach looks over. There's a ridiculously cheeky grin slapped on the guy's face. The guy who looks familiar—that underlying recognition that bugs the hell out of you until you can figure it out.

Zach's suddenly terrified he should know who he is. But he's not gonna say anything. He's just gonna wait until silver fox here does something normal like introduce himself.

They blink at each other.

Zach's _not_ gonna say anything. No matter how long it takes.

"I'm the Real Housewives reunion host guy. You're Spock."

Ohhhh. Zach nods. "That pretty much sums it up, yeah." They're staring each other down now.

"I don't actually know your name."

Well, at least Zach's not alone in that. "You wanna make one up for me?"

"Sure," he says. "I dub thee Eyebrows. You can call me Cross Eyed if you want."

Zach frowns. "You're not cross eyed." He looks a little closer. "Well. I mean, you know, not _obviously_."

He's biting his tongue, tapping a finger on his wineglass and staring at Zach for an answer. "This is embarrassing," he confides. "I'm supposed to know who random fad celebrities are."

"I'm flattered," Zach says dryly. "And I'm Zach. Ary. Quinto."

He stamps his foot a little. "Fuck, I _knew_ that. Dammit. I was gonna say 'Pinto' though."

Zach shrugs. "Same difference."

He beams at Zach like how little kids beam.

"And you are?"

"Andy," Andy says. Ah, yes. That seems right.

It's only a few drinks later between the dark shadows and the columns and the tilt-a-whirl mingling of important people, and already Andy is trying to recruit him.

"You should come on the show," he's insisting.

Zach frowns. "I don't know. I mean, how would that benefit you? How badly does the Bravo audience thirst for Star Trek?"

Andy shakes his head. "You know nothing. The thirst is for the eye candy, i.e., you. The thirst is _for_ the odd idea of someone like you being a guest. It's fun! Come _on_." He somehow manages to give 'on' two syllables. "We had Anderson Cooper!" he adds, like that makes a difference. His general optimism is at odds with the dim mid-town ballroom. His face is red with alcohol and unsuccessful air conditioning. He's got warm, unfamiliar eyes, even if they are a little bit crossed.

Zach makes a show of taking this under consideration, can feel Andy watching him and takes stupid pleasure in it. "Tell me, would I be required to actually watch any of your unreality shows in order to participate?"

"While attempts to educate yourself on the programming are entertaining, I almost prefer it when people who are totally ignorant of the shows just watch whatever's preceding the live show so I can then tape their reactions for the viewing public. And my own personal amusement." Andy smiles, crooked and endearing.

"As I understand it, that's more or less your entire job description."

"You're not wrong," Andy says, smile having morphed into a cheeky as fuck grin by now. "Hey, are you going to benefit over at the Carlton Thursday?"

*

It's dark in the stiflingly trendy bar. Zach is almost positive its name is a number, or maybe even a punctuation mark. The walls are glowing like they're floating in a sea of lava where Union Square used to be. Zach imagines it's meant to be atmospheric, but he just finds it unsettling.

He doesn't know what time it is — the traffic had been obnoxious and he'd been doing battle with his computer to force quit seemingly thousands of sites and ebooks and email drafts, so _that_ had made him late. . .

Zach resists the urge to check his watch, his phone, his hair in a chic little wall mirror.

The people at the bar overlap with the people from the last event, because that's just how it is, and he finds himself wondering whether he'll spot Andy lurking (cheerfully) in the shadows, wonders again what time it is, godddammit . . .

He's sure his phone's just buzzed, but every time he's sure his phone's just buzzed it never has. There's no reason to check it like a dork.

Zach turns one red-washed corner and doesn't see him at first, gets lost in the shift of people and clamoring conversations. But then of course Zach does see him. And the sea doesn't part and the music doesn't swell, but nevertheless something jolts his stomach and gets his heartbeat running away.

He's got icy, familiar eyes like magnets. Somehow they're still exactly as blue even through the hazy sunglow lighting.

"O, camerado," Chris capers as Zach approaches.

Luckily Zach can smirk under pressure. "So _why_ are you in town again?"

"Uh, fashion week. Duh?"

Zach somehow manages to arch one sly eyebrow while Chris stands there so close and smells different somehow, like a new shampoo or lack of hair-gel or old cologne or someone else's cologne or unisex hotel soap or maybe it's just Chris-smell. "Right," Zach says.

Chris regards him for awhile, for longer than most people would. He doesn't seem to realize just how piercing it can be. "New tie?"

"Dior," Zach says. Chris makes a face. "J'adore," he explains. "I thought you were here for fashion week, good sir."

Chris smiles, startles by touching Zach's arm, at which Zach manfully doesn't jump. "Come on, let's find a little quieter spot."

"Don't think that's possible in here," Zach mutters, but he follows anyway.

They end up in a particularly yellow corner of the room, right in that lucky section along the parade of barstools where nobody's congregated and they can actually hear one another.

Chris takes a look around. "It's raining tools," he remarks.

"Should've brought my umbrella."

Chris laughs. "You say that weird. You accent the first syllable instead."

He does _not_ —he would know it if he — that is — well, that's how it's _said_ , isn't it? "Anything else you'd like to tell me about myself?"

"You also say 'needs' instead of 'needs to be' while participles run amok."

Zach shifts uncomfortably, tries to think of a clever yet topic-averting answer.

"So, you've been in New York for an undeniable length of time, now," Chris says. "Is it home yet?" He's pummeling Zach with the force of his focus, and Zach just isn't used to it yet.

"No. I dunno. Well . . ." He shrugs. "It _feels_ like home," he says. "It's weird. It's like because it's such a densely populated place I don't feel like it's possible to be _out_ of place. It's like, every variety of person has existed here, therefore I can't feel foreign, or something. New York isn't beholden to any one sect of people so it can't feel hostile. Whereas LA is the most judgmental place on the planet."

Chris doesn't disagree, staring and orange-skinned in the atmospheric lighting, like some sepia-choked old movie. He's got a sheen of sweat at his throat and temple from the close late summer heat that's somehow barged inside, he's . . . waiting for Zach to say something.

"So what've you been doing with yourself?" Zach asks stupidly.

"That's a very personal question, Zach And I don't think you really wanna know the answer," Chris says, silly, but he looks like he's starting to feel awkward standing there like that, and seeing Chris awkward even for a second is a novel thing to bear witness to. He leans one elbow against the bar, suave as all hell. It makes him have to look up at Zach, makes his face look different. "Well, you know. This and that. Stuff and things."

"Click and Clack?" Zach suggests.

"Work and whining, mostly. Whining about easy, pointless work. Musing to myself that I'd like some more _respectable_ easy, pointless work, as far as that goes, and I figure only, like, a crazy drug-addled interpretation of Leaves of Grass will ever fit that bill. I see it being black and white with isolated pops of color — like, only blue and green or something — and some three hour long gamelan music for the soundtrack, and like one actor. Who's naked. Sadly, Warner Bros. isn't likely to see the revenue potential in _that_. . ."

Zach nods. "While of course it doesn’t surprise me that you've apparently never seen more than two or three Bruckheimer-produced movies, I _am_ surprised you seem to have forgotten about theater. You've _done_ it, if I recall correctly. _I_ do it in order to keep myself from your general state of pathetic whining about easy money."

Chris shrugs. "That would require effort and relocation, of which you are clearly capable, but which for me would only inspire further whining."

"Of course, of course," Zach says. "Anyway I think you underestimate the public's thirst for quality cinema. Black Swan was popular."

"You _know_ why Black Swan was popular," Chris counters. "Anyway, so was the latest Twilight."

Zach can't argue with that. There's a brief punch of laughter and the distance. Glasses clink behind the bar and Zach wonders why Chris isn't socializing with other people.

"So what, are you moving back to LA or what?" Chris says, studiedly nonchalant, which is both impressive and suspicious.

Zach pretends to fix the cuff of his shirt, doesn't look up into the danger of Chris's a full attention as it tends to be too heart-stoppingly blue. "Why do you say that? Wasn't I just expounding on the way in which everything New York is superior?"

"You're gonna do that Glee show," Chris says.

". . .A) Nope. B) Ew. And C) Do you really think I'm that unscrupulously gay? I'm disappointed in you, Chris."

"No, I mean. The Glee producers are involved somehow. Dude, the world unceasingly laments the existence of Glee, but they _were_ responsible for Nip/Tuck, too, right?"

"Ohhh," Zach says. Then, "Wait, how did you know I even signed on for that?"

"Google Alerts, man," Chris says, along with some gratuitously exasperated gestures. "Jeez, are you stuck in the Stone Age or something? Do you _know_ who Steve Jobs is?"

Zach's still pondering. "So what, are you, like, _stalking_ me now?"

Chris sighs long-sufferingly. "I only have you on Google Alerts in an attempt to figure out what the fuck is going on with Star Trek. I have J. J. on there, too, if that makes you feel better. Although I do also fantasize about having a three way with the two of you, so there's that."

Zach takes it all in with valiant deadpan. "So, you _are_ stalking me," he decides.

Chris waves it off. "I dunno why you didn't tell me _anyway_ , since we're supposedly friends. Like, you tell me about your latest fav All State commercial, but not a possible life-altering gig?"

"Life-rearranging, at the very least," Zach amends, not wanting to answer seeing as he hasn't quite got one. "It's not, like, a permanent thing," he says instead. "It's not a major role or anything. Which I'm sure you knew all about as a result of the stalking. . ."

"Noah!" Chris blurts. Zach's eyebrows climb, apparently as desperate to escape Chris's turn for the insane as Zach is. "He, uh, you know, misses you and stuff."

"You know this for a fact, huh?"

"Well, no, but I am a thespian," Chris says reasonably (?). "It's my job to put myself in someone else's shoes. Or someone else's dog's shoes. Which he hasn't got."

" _Right_ ," Zach says. "I dunno, I haven't really thought about it. Maybe you should consult your tried and true source of Zachary Quinto information, Google Alerts."

"Heh." Chris pushes off from the bar, smiles. "You want a single malt, right?"

"Oh, yeah." Of course Chris knows what Zach drinks. Makes perfect sense. "I mean, I guess that's the thing to do in a bar." Zach's mouth is going dry. He clears his throat. "And that."

"Deconstructing it like that doesn't mean you're not a Yinzer." Chris slips away through the people, hopping a little to avoid stepping on someone's dress, which makes Zach's heart hop a little too.

It really is disconcerting to think about Chris cyber stalking him. He could at least be decent about it like Zach and do the stalking in real life at charity events he has no intention of donating to just to be in Chris's rare proximity. It's way healthier.

*

Andy had clearly done some jujitsu-style research on Zach in the time since they're last meeting, because he's been grilling him on everything from Angels in America to So NoTORIous practically since Zach showed up at the Carlton.

"Dude, do you ever get _tired_ of being on duty all the time?" Zach asks wearily, nabbing a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter, for the strawberry more than anything else.

"That's what being a quote unquote television personality is all about. It's not _hard_ or anything. It's just personal branding, which most people do unintentionally. _You_ do it."

"I," Zach begins. "Well, okay, maybe a little. Chris doesn't, though. It's kind of refreshing." He doesn't have to live up to his professional/personal/whatever brand with Chris. And it isn't just an industry thing, Zach knows. It's a people thing. Most people have got to keep up their personas more then they've got to be people, just to stay sane.

"Chris is the boyfriend?"

"Ha! Ahaha. No. _Ha._ "

Zach can't tell if Andy's grin is just a part of his sparkling personality if it's sheer evil glee. "Oh my _God_ you're interested in a straight guy, aren't you?"

"Nooo, we're friends. It's cool. It's not some weird unrequited thing I pine over all the time." Just when he's doing distracting things with his mouth. Which is, admittedly, fairly often.

"Ooh, I _like_ it." That dawning evil glee's well above the horizon line now. Andy's expressions are so exaggerated. Nobody is _that_ expressive. His expression right now says: You're hopeless, it's hilarious, I wish to put it on TV for the world to shake their heads at.

"There are no urges," Zach insists.

Andy ignores him. "I don't care what they say—all the good ones are straight. The ladies are just too stupid to nab them." He gives Zach a thoughtful look. "That's it, I'm making it my mission to play matchmaker."

"You've arrived at that all by yourself over there, haven't you? Excellent." Zach starts looking around the fancy charity event for an escape route, but there's much too much socialite in the way.

"Okay. Just forget for a second about him being straight. Do you think you'd be good together?"

Zach laughs. "Dude, I am _not_ a Real Housewife."

Andy smiles. "Real Housewives are people too." He's still waiting for Zach's answer.

Zach sighs. "I don't know, I mean, I don't know that we have that much in common aside from work and like one or two other obscure things."

Andy gives a pouty frown. "Bah," he says. "It's not about tallying up shared interests. It's about experiencing life in the same way."

Zach's eyebrows climb. "That was unexpectedly profound coming from the producer of Most Eligible Dallas."

"You know, you keep suggesting that I am defined by my affiliation with various Housewife and Million Dollar whatever shows, and you're cute and everything, but if you keep it up _I'll_ have to start suggesting that you are actually Spock."

Zach laughs. Andy's _getting annoyed now_ smile is infectious. "Hey, can I buy you a drink?"

*

When Zach walks in, he half-expects something jazzy to waft over from a grand piano on a red-carpeted dais somewhere. He jogs down three soft steps, past a statue, and out into the subdued restaurant. There's no shortage of tables, but they're all placed at a perfect distance from one another, and Zach can navigate around them with ease. He's sure he'll find Chris talking to somebody else, participating in some genial group discussion, being social like you're supposed to be at these things.

He instead finds Chris sitting alone at a table in the lower-ceilinged section of the dining room, off to the side there. Sitting at an angle with scotch in hand and almost pulling off an unbearably sexy Don Draper vibe if it weren't for the fucking hat.

Zach laughs as he sits down across from him.

"What?"

"You know this is a black tie event right?"

"Psh, no it's not."

"It's _implicit_ ," Zach says, laughs again. "Seriously, what possesses you?"

Chris's eyes widen, exasperated. "We're in New York! The New York Yankees _are_ from here, right?"

"Okie dokie! I think we need some drinks up in here."

They get some drinks up in there. Alcohol makes Chris prone to debate, but instead of listening Zach finds himself honing in on a strand of hair that's fallen out of place and across Chris's forehead, bobbing with his every word.

"I mean, I'm all for teaching alternative theories. It's sort of the point of education, isn't it? But you have to go the whole way with it — you've gotta include like Nietzche and Sikhism in the curriculum, too."

"Like in California."

"The gay stuff?"

"Yeah." Zach pauses to drink, surprised to find so much of it is missing from the glass.

"That's the problem with extremists," Chris continues. "They always pick and choose which facts to remember."

"Well, of course when it comes to Bachmann I believe she's mostly concerned with citing real science only."

"Not manufactured science," Chris clarifies.

"What, you have her every gaff — that is to say, her every word — memorized?"

Chris shrugs. "What kind of godless commie would I be if I didn't? Viva the liberal agenda, man." He looks off to the side while Zach chuckles and something about the sight of Chris's face in profile both soothes and terrifies him.

Zach takes another drink. "Anyway, I'm starting to think Perry's the latest Antichrist or something."

"The First Beast," Chris corrects, the bastard.

"You say that like I paid attention in school," Zach says.

"It's not your fault — the teachers aren't paid enough.

"Nah, that's not really an issue in Catholic school, I don't think."

"All I know is they take great pleasure in spending their summers off complaining about not making any money. And accusing the world of not appreciating them." Chris pauses to drink, licks his lips agitatedly. "Like, _who_ are these people that don't appreciate teachers? Where are they? Seriously, have you ever met someone that hated teachers in general? Ugh, it just pisses me off. They have a stable job with benefits in unions and the ability to wear nice clothes and have their own desk and get to decorate with their favorite fruit themed alphabet posters."

"Okay you're descending rapidly into ultra douche territory, now."

"You know who teachers are?" Chris says, engrossed in his argument. "They're those people who went from high school to college and never worked any menial job or even _had_ a job prior to teaching. So they don't know what a truly terrible, demoralizing job really is. And they think because they cultivate the minds of our youth that they are the only people who have an important, moral profession and the only people who are legitimately charitable."

Zach just raises his eyebrows. "I don't think their desire for better health care is meant to offend you personally. Just saying."

"Like, _I_ know I have a cushy fucking life. I just." Chris seems to wake up, blinks at Zach and laughs. "I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about." He looks awkward again, and Zach can't imagine that Chris has developed this trait in the weeks — months? — since they'd seen each other last. It's fascinating, like learning him all over again every once in a while.

"Do—"  
"Let's—"

"Haha," Chris says. "Come on, I don't care if this place is $100 a plate — let's do unsophisticated shots or something, goddammit."

Zach shouldn't. "Fuck yeah!" he says.

So they drink the time away, and people meander into the main room for the speeches and actual fundraising, but Zach doesn't want to be charming at the world right now, not when he can be charming without making an effort with Chris.

There's no windows, but somehow Zach is able to feel that it's nighttime. Of course he knows this logically too, but there's this odd late-at-night feeling than surges up his spine and makes him hyper but exhausted, makes everything seem real but dreamlike.

He doesn't know when the last time he spoke to someone during daylight was. At this point, it seems strange to meet for lunch. It seems like the onset of nighttime means he's got the go ahead to socialize, just as long as he's dressed up enough.

After probably years of letting Chris babble, Zach says vaguely:

"Do you ever get a weird childhood flashback feeling when you watch yourself in movies? Do you ever get that?" Yeah, Chris is staring at him like he's finally lost it. "Like, you watch yourself on screen and think you're secretly special and everyone loves you even though you're not super hot or talented or whatever, they just think you're amazingly special. Like, did you ever feel like that when you were little? Just secretly holding out that you were extremely unique and important?"

Chris regards him over his drink. "You have issues," he says eventually.

"You're the one who hates on teachers," Zach points out.

Chris is expressionless.

"Answer is a weird word," Zach continues, quite unconcerned with Chris's inexplicable confusion. "Answer. _Ans_ -wer. Swer. How come people don't talk about this? This is a pressing issue of pronunciation. Why do they even _have_ Republican debates if not to address the enigmatic nature of words like 'answer'?"

Chris blinks. "I'm sorry, did you want me to recite etymology at you? This isn't the National Spelling Bee, Zach. You're making me feel like a piece of philological meat."

"And you aren't into that? God, I really thought I had you pegged."

"English is a language that lurks in dark alleys and beats up other languages and rifles through their pockets for spare vocabulary," Chris says.

"Dude, said that anyway? Mark Twain? Sounds a little violent for him, though. . ."

"Who the fuck knows?" Chris gives a slow smile. He looks ridiculous in that hat.

"Take off that fucking hat, man," Zach laughs.

Chris throws it at him. "There. All yours."

Zach nods, puts it on backwards and watches Chris laugh.

"You're not a badass."

"Am too!"

"Okay okay, give it back, now."

Zach feels mischievous. Takes the hat off and toys with it consideringly.

"Hey, come on, don't. Hey. Give it back, Zach."

Zach holds it up in the air when Chris lunges, then jumps up out of his chair and retreats stumblingly backward with Chris in hot pursuit. It's a good thing there's nobody left in this region of the dining room by now.

"Hey, come on. It's special!"

Zach rolls his eyes but unfortunately that's just enough distraction for Chris to grab both his wrists. He doesn't recapture the hat right away.

Instead this happens: the air turns to blinding red heartbeat and Zach's entire being is shed and he's left there floating, dizzy with disbelief and impaled with black-feeling joy—it's delightful, it's delicious, it's delovely—but really it's just Chris kissing him

Something shatters inside as it drags wetly on, drag of lips and drag of deceptively clean-shaven-looking chins. Zach clutches at something Chris-affiliated, sleeve or tie or something, tilts his head to make it known that he is in fact a team player, here. Chris exhales hotly through a jolting jumble of tongues and Zach has a panic attack made of lust.

When Chris pulls away there's a feeling like calamity in the pit of Zach's stomach. He puts the dumbass Yankees hat back on with a curt little nod that's spoiled by giggles.

"Oh, shit," Chris laughs, leaning on him which makes Zach shakily unable to stop thinking about what's just happened. "Oh shit, I need to sit down."

Zach forces a laugh and ignores a hurricane of half-formed thoughts and leads Chris back to the table.

*

The press of people on any warm city night can be little disorienting, but tonight it's a bit insane, not to mention oppressively fashion forward.

It's unseasonably warm—kind of sweaty and uncomfortable, actually. Zach feels a pang of grief for all that sweat-tainted fashion parading down the street.

The store windows are lit up in a magical, Christmas-feeling way. He struggles to focus through it, through the people, through his body gradually overheating, past Do Not Walk signs and impromptu step-and-repeats.

He finds Chris by his scarf — something which he tends to don as a sort of instant fashion accessory.

Chris doesn't see him at first, and Zach weaves through little pockets in the sidewalk crowd to him, muttering so many _excuse me_ 's that he's surprised Chris still hasn't noticed him. He taps Chris's shoulder.

When Chris turns around Zach is struck by how easy it would be to kiss him from this distance. Almost sinfully easy, really. It's seems insulting _not_ to kiss his terribly straight friend out of the blue at such an accommodating distance, what with his mouth being parted and pornographic-looking at all times.

If _Chris_ could molest him in public, then why _shouldn't_ he return the favor? Because there wasn't alcohol involved (yet)? Because it meant something if Zach was the instigator? Circumstantial bullshit.

_Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me._

Some Chanel-clad chick is frowning at him in such a way that has Zach worrying he might've said some of that out loud.

He snaps out of it at last. "So, where's the fug hat?" Zach asks.

Chris shrugs. "Left it at home to protect it from your lecherous advances. It felt violated," he confides.

"Is it really so sentimental that you've gone to such lengths to protect it?"

"I could ask you the same thing . . ." Chris mutters.

"Didn't you get it in Paris? Didn't I _dare_ you to get that because it was just sitting there on the shelves next to Statue of Liberty souvenirs as though _the_ Yankees in fact represented, you know, all of the Yankees?"

Chris looks off to the side and down, smirks to himself. Zach wishes he was privy to whatever wry witticisms are stuck up there in Chris's head. But all he does is nod.

There's a sudden rustle of sparkly neon charging its way through the crowd. Cameras flash all in a row.

"The fuck was that?" Chris says, trying to see around a gaggle of women in ludicrously high heels.

Zach squints between people's heads. "That's a Nicki Minaj in its natural habitat."

"Of what, crazy mismatched couture?"

". . . Yes. A thousand times yes." Chris is depressingly out of the loop sometimes.

Chris's gaze casts around, eyelashes strangely pronounced under a shock of streetlight. "Why do so many people come to this anyway? It's insanity."

"Well, it's easier to escape than a stuffy fashion show, for one. You can just wander across the street if you want to. No bolted doors and red carpet of piranha-razzi to brave if you wanna skip out early."

"Speaking of which, should we actually go inside at some point?"

It certainly makes sense. They get swept up in the rip tide of people moving slowly down the sidewalk. It steers them into a blindingly glowy store.

Chris indicates a mannequin with a disproportionately stylized head. "This is creeping me out, man. How long do we have to stay?"

"Dude, why are you even here?" Zach wants to know, laughs. He really does want to know, though.

"What's with the birds and shit?" Chris says instead.

"Prints are on trend for the next month or so," Zach explains.

They study the mannequins. A black-clad waiter zips snootily by with shot glasses of something pink and mysterious.

"This is like going to museum," Chris reflects.

". . . Yes. And?"

"I—"

"Don't you just _love_ it?" gushes a fur-clad female. "This color story? I. Love. This. Girl. I die," she says, rapt. "I. Die."

"Yeah, it's pretty cool—" Chris begins, but she's already gone.

Zach shrugs. They look at each other under the zappy colorless lights. Chris has razor burn and nearly-chapped lips, bare freckled forearms and that stupid scarf. And he's there with Zach and doesn't seem to hate him, but still nobody's mentioned anything about any drunken spit-swapping.

Zach taps his foot while fashionistas float blissfully by like so many stylish clouds. Nobody says anything.

Chris laughs to break the silence, looks down and over like he's mapping out an escape route. "Where'd that goddamn waiter go?" he mumbles.

*

"Aren't the purple spotlights gonna mess with the looks?"

Andy pats his arm sympathetically. "Sweetie, the spotlights are _part of_ the looks."

They aren't sitting in the front row, and therefore Zach can't see much of anything _except_ for the purple spotlights. He fights the urge to fidget.

Andy types away on his Blackberry obsessively. There used to be cat people and dog people—now there's just iPhone people and Blackberry people. He and Andy are clearly incompatible.

Zach clears his throat. "Well, I'm here. In person. Are you happy now?"

"Not yet," Andy says, looking up for a split second to grin just to impress the trademark of it upon the world, and Zach doesn't mean that hyperbolically.

Zach sighs, oversees the slow trickle of fashion gawkers into the echoey black room.

Andy nudges him "Hey," he says, still hunched over his phone. "What's your secret straight-boy crush's name?"

"Why do—?" Zach starts.

"Never mind. Never mind. IMDB."

Zach snorts. "What, that isn't your homepage?"

Andy is typing much too furiously to respond.

Zach peers over. "The hell are you doing?"

"Oh don't you worry, Zach," Andy reassures. "I've been thinking about this."

"That . . . is precisely what worries me."

Andy glances at him while the growing audience murmurs solemnly in the background. "I'm gonna play matchmaker. It'll be great. Jewish matchmaking is world renowned, you know," he says, like that's supposed to be reassuring.

"Thought that was just with old Jewish matriarchs," Zach says, looking over Andy's shoulder at the screen.

"Are you saying that _doesn't_ apply to me?" Andy says. He's found some smirky pic of Chris on Google by now. "Aw. How very boy next door. I can see the appeal."

Zach shakes his head. "Type in 'details'."

"Huh—?"

"Just do it," Zach says resignedly.

" _Fi_ -ne." Then, "Oh." He clicks on something. " _Oh_."

"Yeah."

". . . _How_ are you friends with that?" Andy says, touching the screen absently. "Be _cause_ that appears to be an incubus."

"A dirty, sweaty, leather clad incubus that I have to speak normally to," Zach agrees. Sighs. " _Yeah_."

Andy gives Zach an appraising look. "You can turn him."

"To the Dark Side? What am I supposed to do, tell him I can feel the good in him?"

Andy waggles his eyebrows.

"Oh, grow up."

Andy relents for the duration of the show, gone uncharacteristically silent except to point out persons of scandalous interest sitting nearby. But as soon as the lightning of cameras has died down Andy starts in again with seduction schemes.

"I'm serious! Here, I know: get him to come on Watch What Happens Live with you and I'll make sure there's spin the bottle. Or mistletoe, depending on the season."

"Is that so?" Zach asks, following Andy around a giant cloth divider. "What do you expect me to do—just walk up and lay a smooch on him without warning? You do realize he's straight, right?"

"Oh, it'll be fine." If only he could bottle Andy's stubborn cheerfulness—he'd make a mint.

Zach smiles back. "Are we even allowed to be back here?" Nobody else is back here.

There's an army of photographers lying in wait on the other side of the divider but Zach figures Andy knows what he's doing. Really knows Andy knows what he's doing when he gets Zach by the shirtcollar with both hands and kisses him without an ounce of hesitation.

Zach's not gonna _not_ respond. He's just finding a lovely new angle when Andy pulls away.

"That's what you do," Andy says, somehow smug and chipper at once.

*

It's not long before they escape to the abandoned balcony at the homey (not really) little fundraiser in someone influential's Upper West Side condo.

"Well, this blows," Chris he says, rummages in his back pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboro's.

Zach snorts. "Thought you weren't a Marlboro Man anymore."

Chris is having issues plucking out a cigarette, fault of the surprise-cold evening. "Rub it in my face that you succeeded in quitting all you want—I'll just—I'll . . . _fuck_ this thing." He gives an almighty tug and pulls one free at last. "There. Oh wait, where's my—?"

"Lighter?" Zach says, offers one up with commendable nonchalance. He flicks a flame into being and Chris leans in quickly close to get a light, smelling like worn out cologne.

"You're an asshole," Chris says, sucking in and sighing out with a lovely half-lidded look before he resumes his agitation: "You said you quit! Scratch that—you _bragged_ that you quit."

Zach shrugs. "You're a hypocrite. You go on about tobacco companies and cancer all the livelong day whenever _I_ smoke, which is _why_ I don't do it around you anymore. Dumbass."

Chris smirks. "Very well, then. I contradict myself. Anyway, all the cool kids are doing it . . ." He looks sideways at Zach, takes a drag on the cigarette and keeps just _looking_.

 _This is hot you are hot stop putting things in your mouth goddammit I am going to spontaneously combust—no, really—no, for real,_ Zach babbles, thankfully internally. "Cool," he agrees.

And Chris is just being so magnetic tonight that Zach decides he deserves to relax a little and lights one up itself. They look quietly out over the variable buildings.

It had been bonafide Indian summer mere days ago—now the bite of citywide autumn cuts through the air, the hint of dying leaves over sewer-smell and car exhaust. Zach shivers.

"Winter is coming," Chris pronounces.

Zach gives him an odd look. "That happens here. It's a humid continental climate, you know."

"Who the fuck remembers that from, what, sixth-grade science? Sometimes I think you _are_ Spock."

Chris pauses to take a savory drag. Zach holds his breath while Chris holds in smoke, relaxes when it blooms from his mouth and into chilled air.

"I feel like there's a yin and yang thing going on between LA and New York. Like, at home everything happens in the sun, at the beach or sitting outside at restaurants or whatever. Everything here happens under cover of darkness."

"Well, I guess we New Yorkers are just more clandestine. Gotham City, and that."

Chris makes a face somewhere in the middle of that.

"Means surreptitious," Zach elaborates. "Cunning. Mysterious."

"Mm," Chris says, sounds like he's trying not to say something bitchy. Smokes.

"So, it's nice out here," Zach says, then immediately wants to kick himself. "It's nice to get away from people, I mean."

Chris taps ash into a piece of pretentious pottery, which was admittedly kind of asking for it. "Sometimes I wonder if we ever see each other in places that aren't sponsored by somebody."

"There was that time in . . ." Zach begins. "Oh, wait. Never mind . . ."

"I always forget how much I hate mingling. Professional mingling, that is."

"I mean, we're all branding yourselves. And not just people in the business. It's just what you do." Zach doesn't know why he says it. He's suddenly worried that Chris will get sick of mingling with him, will get sick of acting in films and in person and stop unknowingly humoring Zach's pathetic crash every couple of weeks or months.

"Oh, come on. _You_ don't do that." Big-seeming eyes glace over at him. "You don't. You're a douchey hipster, but that's who you actually are."

"Thanks?"

Chris shakes his head, so serious. "I just mean that anyone else would start wearing fashionable crap and hire a stylist and stop abusing participles."

"Are you saying I'm not fashionable, Chris?" Zach teases.

" _No_. That's not what I meant, man."

 _Why_ is he so serious? "O- _kay_. . ." Zach takes an antsy drag. "So what do you mean?" He can't even think of a decent quip to reawaken Chris's knowing little smirk.

"You just. I dunno, I've been filming a lot. I've been doing so many promotions and whenever I'm _not_ I'm actively working to ensure that more of the same happens after that. I forget about how you. . . like, I forget about people who aren't just roles. I forget that you're around and you can see the real world too."

". . . We're in the Matrix or something?"

Chris smokes moodily. He belongs in a stylized film noir with that suit and that set to his shoulders.

"I mean, you're right," Zach tries. Feels on edge. "Nobody gives a shit about the charities. Well, they _do_ —they're just selfishly motivated. It's a status thing."

"Greed," Chris says. Pauses. "Which is the opposite of charity, deadly sin-wise."

"Sin versus virtue, good versus evil. It's just names for sides," Zach says, feeling like he's supposed to be comforting.

"I don't give charity," Chris says philosophically. "I give myself."

Zach rolls his eyes. "Is possible for you to go five minutes without plagiarizing?"

"Please. Walt wouldn't mind."

"Oh, so you're on a first name basis with Walt Whitman?"

Chris doesn't answer, but his expression screams: _Of course. How dare you._

"Just curious: do you run around speaking steam-of-consciousness when you're reading Ulysses?"

"Tediously memorizing Leaves of Grass is a sacred duty. You wouldn't understand," he says melodramatically. "Helps separate the people worth talking to from the vapid Hollywood zombies."

"I've learned that being with those I like is enough," Zach recites. "There. Is it cool to speak with me now?" What was he supposed to do if he couldn't see Chris at vapid Hollywood zombie conventions?

Chris drops his half-gone cigarette unexpectedly, stamps it out with the toe of his shoe. Zach waits for him to say something. Wonders insanely if Chris has finally gotten sick of him because he's probably misquoted. Because Zach is just too fake sometimes. He puts his cigarette out to copy him and immediately regrets it because fears and impulses are wracking his brain.

When Chris stops looking down his eyes are supernatural.

Zach kisses him.

Chris doesn't taste like anything, but he smells like smoke and cologne, fingers searingly hot and mouth soft and hard and wet but his nose presses coldly into Zach's cheek. Chris makes a mumbley moan that reverberates to the roots of Zach's hair.

Zach slides his hands underneath Chris's jacket and Chris jumps at how cold they are while Zach enjoys the shift of fabric over warm skin, gets a better hold on Chris's waist with one hand while the other pushes wrinklingly up his chest just to feel. Chris leans into it so Zach lets his hand fall to catch over one chill-peaked nipple and Chris leans into that too with a sharp little exhale.

Zach releases him. "There! Now we're even," he says. Chris doesn't speak but his mouth glistens. "Now you can live with unanswered questions and uncertainty and sexual confusion too. I have done the deed and kissed you back instead of standing there gaping. Is that what you wanted or what?"

"I've been freaking out," Chris gasps, holding on to the front of Zach's shirt still. "I don't know why I attacked you other day. . ."

"Don't care." Zach tries to shush him with his mouth, finding that it's become addictive.

But Chris talks the kiss asunder: "I just. . . it's been weird seeing you, I never see you anymore, and I dunno, I dunno. . ."

"Forgetaboutit," Zach beseeches, holds Chris's head still to kiss him again.

Chris responds for a while— until a sudden surge of laughter from inside reminds them that one curtained glass door is all that separates them from the ingratiating elite.

"Let's uh," Chris begins, has to clear his throat. "Let's take this party inside?" He flashes a grin, gives Zach a little shove and goes back inside, leaving Zach no choice but to follow.

It's truly amazing that the coatroom is this overflowing mid-September, but Zach doesn't think too much into it because Chris has pulled him in by his tie and is resuming their makeout session before there's any time to second guess the whole thing.

Chris's lips are still wet from before, and his face is still cold from being outside, but the rest of him is hot and pressing into Zach — hard hip, heaving chest, strong arms.

"Mmf you're a good kisser," Chris says vaguely.

"Mmf," Zach agrees, pushes a flimsy fashion cape aside to make more room. Chris sucks on Zach's bottom lip and presses closer right when Zach's maneuvering a hand between his legs. There's more kissing while Chris tries and fails to keep from pressing into Zach's hand.

Chris finally tears away, breathes like he's battling suffocation. "What would you wanna do, Zach?" he pants. "If we weren't in the closet and everything."

"Oh _ha ha_ —it's a _coatroom_ , asshole." Chris is clutching at him, body twisting against him like every place they touch is crucial. "Uh. _Nn_. God, you're so . . ."

"What?" Chris kisses him fiercely. "What? No, I mean it. Tell me what we'd be doing if this wasn't a goddamn closet."

"Coatroom . . ." Zach says under his breath.

" _Tell_ me, come on." He's so hard in Zach's hand. His body's so restless and shaky against him. "I'm a two, according to Kinsey. I don't sit around all day contemplating the male anatomy. But I fucking love it when you _talk_ and I fucking . . . just . . . urgh." He presses them into another halfway kiss, lips catching and Zach's arousal doubling.

Zach stops touching him, falls further back into the ocean of coats until his back hits a wall, drags Chris with him and makes it so his back's against Zach's chest and Zach can kiss his neck while he resumes his task. Chris gasps quietly, presses his hips up into the attention, presses back against where Zach's at full attention himself.

"I'd get you out of these," Zach says, gets Chris's fly open, relishes Chris's sharp inhale, wends his hand under boxers and around straining cock. "Get my mouth on this."

Dazedly, "Oh really?"

"Oh. _Really_." Zach pulls harder on Chris's cock, loves how he can smell his hair and taste his neck from here. "Throw you down on a bed somewhere and suck your cock."

"God," Chris says haltingly. "Just. Fast. Faster, God—"

Zach can't help a growl, reaches his other hand over to undo enough of Chris's shirt buttons to pull the collar aside and bite at the place where shoulder meets neck, lick up to his ear and suck on the lobe. He can see Chris's shiny parted mouth from here, his closed eyes and grey-blurred features in the lightless room.

"Or," Zach says. "Plan B. Plan B involves me—"

"Plan B From Outer Space?"

"That's Plan 9. You're thinking of the morning-after pill."

"Way to kill the mood, man, Je— _sus_ , ah-shit-just-do-that—"

"Sure thing," Zach says, twisting his hand again and ripping a too-loud groan from Chris's throat. He clamps his other hand over Chris's mouth and strokes him harder.

"Anyway," Zach whispers. "Plan B is where I hold you down — you know, on that bed from earlier — and fuck you, and—"

" _Fuck_."

"That's what I said, yeah."

"Fuck me how?" Chris's so hard in his hand, and he won't stop squirming back against him. Zach's got to grind into him to keep from going crazy. "Zach."

"Youfeelsogood," Zach murmurs, getting lost in it.

Chris twists around, doesn't so much kiss him as smash his face against Zach's and breathe into his mouth while getting his hands deftly down Zach's pants. Zach throws his head back at the bright flourish of pleasure and Chris sucks just to the side of his Adam's apple.

"What happens next?" Chris says to Zach's jaw, biting and kissing and jerking him off. He drags Zach's nerveless hand back to his groin and moans indulgently when he matches Chris's pace.

"Fuck you," Zach says. "That is, I'd fuck you. Try to make you scream—"

"Do or do not," Chris pants. "There is no try."

"Star Wars isn't sexy," Zach points out.

"Blasphemy."

"Okay, _Yoda_ isn't sexy . . ."

Chris kisses him, probably to shut him up. Jerks Zach's cock harder while trailing his mouth damply over to Zach's ear, sweaty temple against his cheek. "You make me scream, and you hold me down and fuck me hard and it's _ludicrous_ how much I want that. Because it's you and you're so magnetic and _so hard right now_ , fuck . . . "

"You want it, Chris?"

"Of course I fucking want you," Chris all but growls.

Zach gets his free hand at the back of Chris's neck, smooth hot skin there, turns his head to kiss. Chris writhes against him, fisting his hand in Zach's shirt and making urgent little noises into Zach's mouth until he comes between them, gasping and Zach can just make out the flutter of eyelids in the close darkness.

And even though Chris has gone mostly boneless he doesn't stop bringing Zach ever closer to the edge, doesn't stop kissing him haphazardly. Says, in his lowest, most luscious voice, "Come for me, Zach."

Needless to say, Zach obeys.

Panting pathetically against each other in a high fashion coatroom, hair surely wrecked, to say nothing of their clothes — all of this and Chris just laughs and can't seem to stop clinging to him.

Zach's heart beats so forcefully it carries little aftershocks of pleasure with it, deafening and red-feeling in his head.

*

It's so quiet in the park. So sunny and secluded that after half an hour of strolling in jeans and unfashionable hats Zach asks,

"So, what, you're gay now? Or am I just special?"

Chris shrugs. "I'm just trying to celebrate myself, I guess."

"As per Mr Whitman?" Zach says. "You think this is some kind of on trend pederasty or something? I'm not _that_ much older than you. And anyway this isn't the 19th century, no matter how much you wish it was," Zach says, gives Chris's shoulder a consoling pat.

"Zach—" Chris begins.

"I mean, was this some secret evil plan of yours all along? Lead me on at charity events for a week?"

"I might point out that there was a certain amount of payoff."

"Well," Zach says, caught up in Chris's steady smirky look. "Well, yeah." He glances around.

Chris doesn't glance around, just leans on in to kiss him.

Zach can't help holding onto him by the shoulders. "We're not gonna talk about this, are we?"

" _Nooo_ ," Chris laughs.

"But we _are_ gonna have sex again?"

"What do you think?" Chris catches Zach's hand, edges off the path and takes Zach with him.

*


End file.
